One is a crime the other a work of virtue,
It’s a hijaab of amorous lovers
As I played, so many moon years have passed by
playing the tambura in front of the donkeys.
The divine resides inside you,
open as many books as many as you wish
The saints they only have the divine with them,
nothing other to speak about
neither to account for
Sans the flame of love,
the world is a place of misery
In front of the Mehboob diminish yourself braised
like the kabab on a skewer
In the battlefield of love,
you will have to face the scorching hot despair of love
O Mother! the one who torments
endures the arrows lovingly like a Nawab
Sachu says the one who yearns like that,
their purdah of love unveils itself